5.24.16 Blossoming Yellow Seed Wavespell
Corn Woman lives here. To reach her is to walk with bare feet through damp dark dirt, pants rolled up, ankles kissed by water, legs caressed by ferns. Toes climb surely over spongy moss-covered rocks, bridges formed by fallen logs popping up mushrooms, carefully stepping over sticks that point the way. The withered remains of Yellow Lady’s Slipper dangle atop stalks, while Jacks murmur at their pulpits; deep in discussion. Trillium has come and gone, the forest floor is adorned by faded pink Geraniums who jilted by their lovers sway forlornly, gazing at the trail that leads to where Corn Woman lives.
All is quiet. Birds have ceased with their din. Blue Cohosh fan her brow where she rests; her dirty face upturned with a gentle smile. She opens one eye and beckons,
“Come my daughter, come and listen for Summer breezes are on the way, Solstice will shine and the long time Sun will play.”
I sit and a window opens, a tunnel through her wee round face. I enter this door and her voice guides me . . . .
To rub the river rocks together and paint your face while you paint mine and the children paint each other. Mud and clay adorns us where we stand and dry under summer sun rays. We walk to where the creaking pines grow, below them a carpet of dry needles where we sit for a spell and talk under orange and pink skies. A tiger prowls in the woods, stretches out on a boulder, blinks while the setting sun sinks. We lay down, hand in hand, side by side, head to head, toe to toe. A doe comes looking for her fawn. We begin to sing a song born of light and dew, fog and mist, rainbows and delight. Huntress comes searching for the Holy Grail. She joins us on the forest floor, we open a space, spread out a little, singing the whole while. Huntress adds a deep bass note, booming against trunk and bark it echoes. A coyote howls in the meadow. One by one as more people gather, a flower forms on the earth, a cosmic sun, a buttercup, a dandelion bearing seeds. Rumpelstiltskin dances around the edges, Rip van Winkle wakes up from his sleep, Mary leaps over the beaming bodies breaking all the rules while she chants and drums on her chest; a feral wild child weaned from Corn Woman’s breast. Straw is spun into gold so bright, none notice that it’s inky night for it appears that the sun shines on! The song is gathering, churning, fermenting, until risen it’s sent into the earth and carried away root to root, rock to rock, mushroom strand and spore to every land that needs soulfire, solar light, healing to mend the world aright, and everything is still for a breath. Then come the tears distilled, the smiles and hugs and laughs where pistils and anthers meet, toes touching feet, fingers tickling bellies, and the universe rejoices when the banjo picker strums the strings and the dancing begins . . . .
Corn Woman calls me back. She sends me on my way. I pass The Gatekeeper along my way. He winks where he’s swigging his drink of Tulip Poplar nectar, and in a raspy voice declares,
“The Knights Templar quest for the Grail, their puppet Priestesses have the Madonna on sale, they don’t know I’m hot on their trail.”
He chortles and cackles then grows dark and grim, sticks out a tin, turns the rim and fixes me with a stony grin,
“You’ve got to pay to play behind the gates.”
I spit in his cup. He holds it up and drinks it with a satisfied gulp, grants me passage with a nod.
I pick up a stalk where my feet have trod, it’s bulbous ontop, pocked yellow where seeds once blossomed.
I find my way with ease out of the dark, out of the woods, out of the shadows, out of the coulds and shoulds.
I am Cornstalk Woman. I bear Corn Woman’s rod to share with a ray of fellows.
“Hearken to where the little feet twirl
Children are meant to be seen and heard
When the woods go silent of their giggles and swirls
When only the grown ups grunt behind beards
Beware beware and rue the day
For the child’s voice is meant to be heard while at play
Hearken to where their fingers spin
Gold from flowers amidst a ruckus and din
Children are meant to be seen and heard
There’s a child in each woman, each man with a beard
So let those squeals out, the peals of free ways
Honest and true they know the path to the leys
Hearken and live with wonder and glee
The child is the door, the child is they key.”
Comments welcome . . .